I gave it one last shot. ‘But, Papa, God doesn’t condone marriage when the girl refuses. There’s even a law against it here.’
He slapped me and I held my cheek in shock. ‘This is evil talk. Who have you been listening to? The Koran tells children to be obedient. Is this obedience?’
I wanted to say marriage was different, that this wasn’t a case of being disobedient, but a dart of doubt pierced me. What if Papa was right and I had to obey him to ensure God’s mercy? By all accounts Shaukat wasn’t a bad man; my life shouldn’t be a nightmare like Nargis’s was.
Papa took my quietness for acquiescence. He put an arm around my shoulders. ‘I hope I don’t need to remind you about your duties as a daughter. This is not all about you. A marriage is for the whole family.’ He paused. ‘But I am also thinking of your future and your happiness. Tomorrow will be a happy day, you will see.’
Aunt Bibi flapped outside and drew us back into the lounge. By then I was weeping, but no one took any notice. I’d just had a huge surprise; tears of joy were expected.
Long after Papa had gone to the mejalis with Uncle Rasheed to eat, the singing and dancing in the house went on, late into the night. All I wanted to do was go to bed and never wake up.
28
I woke on the morning of the ceremony feeling sick. Jamila was in the bathroom so I checked the phone. There was a message. Frank had left it late; would I be able to get away now? But the message said how sorry he was that the paperwork wasn’t through.
we have to come after the ceremony. will you be at grooms parents house?
It was a while before I could reply. So I was going to have to go through with the wedding. In my heart I would be refusing Shaukat, but did that count in God’s eyes? Then that doubt washed over me again. Would God want me to marry to keep Papa happy? Then Tariq flooded my mind—how could I even think of not marrying him?
will be at grooms parents house. walima there in 2 days time.
I gave Frank Uncle Iqbal’s full name; he’d be able to find them by asking in the bazaar.
I tried not to dwell on what the walima was for. I’d be a false bride, for although they could force me to marry Shaukat they couldn’t force me to sleep with him.
Meena came in then to wash off the beauty treatments I’d been subjected to all week. I was to be treated as a princess all day; she even showered me. Any enthusiasm I’d tried to conjure up before the wedding was gone, yet no one minded. This was how a bride was supposed to be: sorrowful at leaving her parents’ home. But it was all wrong; this wasn’t my parents’ home; Mum wasn’t even here. All their kindness couldn’t disguise the fact that I was being made to do something I didn’t want to do.
It took hours to get me ready. At first I sat in my old clothes and girls and women looked in to say hello and wish me God’s blessings. A hairdresser came, and a make-up artist—Meena wasn’t chancing her talents on this important day. She did my nails though, hands and feet. The henna had been washed off before I went to sleep and the patterns were clear and tasteful.
Zeba sat cross-legged on the bed and watched my transformation. ‘I hope I am as beautiful as you when I get married,’ she said.
The make-up artist scrutinised me before she got started. ‘You have used bleaching cream for many months, yes? How are you so fair?’
Meena laughed. ‘Ameera is Australian—she doesn’t need bleaching cream. Nor cover fluid.’
‘Your eyes—you use the contact lens for green colour?’
I shook my head.
‘They’re real,’ Zeba said proudly.
‘Incredible,’ the woman said, and went to work with her powder, lipstick, eye shadow and kohl.
After the make-up, the jewellery was put on. The teeka was pinned to my hair with strings of tiny pearls. It hung cold and heavy on my forehead. Then the huge nose ring, the nath, was inserted. The gold ring was too thick for the hole already in my nose and Meena had to push it through with a piece of ice on the other side. I felt a sharp pain: ‘Ow!’ She wiped away the blood. Precious stones dripped from the ring and a gold chain travelled into my hair as a safety chain. The gold necklace came next, then earrings, bracelets, a ring for every finger with a chain attached running up to my wrist. Every piece made me feel more weighed down, as though someone was pressing the air out of me. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up.
Meena held a mirror in front of me. The make-up was so thick I looked like a Moghul painting. It wasn’t me at all. In one way that was easier to bear, for I could imagine this was happening to someone else: the girl in the mirror.
Meena helped me into the red and gold gharara that had been brought over the night before. It was so long and heavy it was difficult to walk in. She pinned the dupatta with the gold fringe to my hair. With the dupatta covering my face, I would look like the perfect bride.
Dadi jan came to bless me; she looked graceful in an ice-green sari. ‘My child,’ she said.
I clung to her. ‘Dadi jan.’ I was desperate. She was the eldest woman in the house; if anyone could stop the wedding, couldn’t she? Didn’t Uncle Rasheed still listen to her advice? I had never told Dadi jan why I couldn’t marry Shaukat. I did then. I whispered in her ear, not sure she would hear me. I pulled back to look at her face and her eyes widened. She clutched my arm.
‘Remember Hir and Ranjha,’ she whispered. ‘Remember what we spoke of.’ She touched my head but gave me no other encouragement. All she said was, ‘May God be with you, child. He knows what is best and will guide you.’
Then we heard the sound that thrilled the heart of a happy bride but was like an arrow through mine: the barat, the groom’s procession with the drums and horns and the shouts and joyful songs of the young men in the party.
Zeba was up at the window, squealing. ‘Look at Shaukat! He is on a white horse. It’s huge and it’s dancing! He has a turban like a prince and gold tassels covering his face. Ameera, come look.’
Fortunately Meena said it wasn’t seemly for the bride to be caught staring at the barat, for I couldn’t have forced myself to go near that window. The music that made the girls in the room dance was a funeral dirge to me.
‘Come now,’ Meena said. She led me to the lounge where a table stood with two brocade chairs opposite each other. Apparently, the marriage hall that Meena had been married in was destroyed in the earthquake. There was a wooden screen that I could sit behind on a couch. The family couch had been changed for a red and gold one; they must have hired it.
‘No one will bother you here,’ she whispered. She kissed me and there were tears in her eyes. ‘May God bless you.’ Then she added, ‘Don’t worry, you are so beautiful Shaukat will fall in love with you as soon as he sees you.’
She must have seen the fear in my eyes for she hugged me before she went out to greet guests. I sat there stunned: her words had had the opposite effect from what she’d intended. This was a loveless marriage on my part; I hadn’t counted on Shaukat having feelings of his own.
Every now and then Zeba came to check on me. Each time she stared at me in awe before she spoke. She gave me a running commentary on my own wedding. ‘So many guests have come. They are sitting under the shamianas, the big coloured tents. There are carpets from Abu’s shop everywhere and another beautiful couch for you and Shaukat to sit on after the nikah. The barbers are cooking the chicken curry and rice.’
Then Papa was there. When I saw him I couldn’t help myself: I burst into tears.
‘My beautiful beti,’ he crooned.
It was the first time in ages that he’d called me beautiful, but I didn’t want beauty if all it did was catch me the most eligible man in the family. Papa held me and I cried harder.
‘You will miss your life in Australia but you will be happy,’ he said. ‘And so will I.’
All I wanted was Mum, but I couldn’t voice the accusation that Papa was deliberately keeping her from me. Had she rung again without them telling me? Did she even know that this was my weddi
ng week? Don’t say anything, Frank had said. And so I remained silent.
Meena was there then with a box of tissues. She patted under my eyelashes. ‘It is time for the nikah. Are you okay?’
I sniffed and nodded. My body was taut like a rabbit’s ready to flee, but there was nowhere to run.
The maulvi came in with the wedding papers. He had a long black beard and a white turban, and in the way of religious men kept his gaze averted from me. Papa guided me to the table and I sat; he stood behind me as the witness. The maulvi spoke swiftly in Urdu and I missed some of what he said. He mentioned the dowry Papa had provided, then there was talk of the mehr, the bride price. Some for me, but also Shaukat was giving Papa money—some payable before, and the rest after the marriage was consummated. I felt the cage snapping shut, squeezing all the air out of me. Papa’s comment about the marriage being good for the family—this was what he had meant. It was a business deal and I was just a pawn.
I heard the word ‘talaq’ and realised the agreement included a provision that allowed me a divorce if necessary. The idea was so the bride could feel secure, but I tried to imagine me divorcing Shaukat. The fallout would be nuclear and Papa would lose his money. My head began to ache.
Then the maulvi was asking me a question; the room fell quiet.
‘Pardon?’ I said.
‘Ameera Hassan Zufar, do you accept this marriage?’
I didn’t think, I just said, ‘No.’
The maulvi’s discipline splintered and he glanced at me. I imagined I saw concern in his face. He was my only hope and I started formulating an argument in my mind. Surely he couldn’t in all conscience marry me if I objected?
Both Papa’s hands came down heavily on my shoulders; his fingers dug into my flesh. I steeled myself not to utter a sound. He gave a short laugh. ‘She is stressed today and didn’t hear you properly, Maulvi Sahib. Please ask again.’
The priest licked his lips and stared at the paper in front of him. ‘Ameera Hassan Zufar, do you accept this marriage?’
I was silent.
Papa spoke. ‘Is it true, Maulvi Sahib, that a child invokes God’s wrath if she doesn’t obey her elders?’
‘The Holy Koran talks of obedience, yes, but—’
‘See, beti, this stubborn childishness must stop. Soon you will see how fortunate you are.’
The maulvi nodded at that. ‘This is a good match, child.’
I wasn’t going to get out of it. The maulvi thought I was nervous. He could never understand the culture I had come from, nor about Tariq. No one understood about Tariq or how I thought love was more important than good connections and honour. With tears in my eyes I spat one word, ‘Fine.’ It could have meant anything.
I was supposed to be asked for my consent three times and to say ‘qabool kiya’, ‘I accept’, each time, but Papa released my shoulders and the maulvi quickly recited a chapter of the Koran and some other things I didn’t understand. Then he declared Shaukat and me man and wife.
I was still in shock when the maulvi laid a paper in front of me to sign. It was written in Urdu. Papa pointed out the line where I was to sign. Below it was another signature: Shaukat had already signed. Shouldn’t the girl sign first? I sat staring at his writing, the only tangible indication that he was real and from this day would be my husband. It was a firm hand, with a flourished line underneath, but like most doctors’ handwriting, entirely illegible. I decided to make mine illegible too so no one would know I had willingly signed. I scribbled Ameera Tariq, not because I would have taken Tariq’s name if I’d married him, but because he had possession of my heart. Not all of me was marrying Shaukat. It was my last token of defiance. In the presence of God and in my heart I refused Shaukat and I prayed God would be merciful and help me in the days ahead.
Papa witnessed my signature. As he put the cap on his fountain pen, he said in an undertone, ‘I never thought I’d see you act like this. You have been spoilt by your mother. If there was any doubt about my decision I know now I have done the right thing for you. Now you are Shaukat’s problem and he will pull you into line.’
His words hit me with the force of a backhander and fresh tears squeezed out of my eyes.
Then he straightened and smiled at Aunt Bibi as she looked in the room. ‘Are you ready?’ she asked.
I breathed heavily as I stared at the table and tried to compose myself. This was the moment I dreaded. Aunt Bibi, Uncle Iqbal and their close relatives brought Shaukat in to sit opposite me. I had my head lowered so he couldn’t see my face. I could hear other relatives crowding into the room too. Aunt Bibi put the mirror on the table between us and a red silk scarf was thrown over our heads so that we were alone beneath it. Someone handed Shaukat a Koran under the scarf and he read from it in Arabic. His voice was deep and it never wavered. Even one sign of weakness might have made me feel better, but no, this was a man who Papa thought could look after me properly.
‘Look at her in the mirror, Shaukat. Here is your bride.’ There was a chorus urging him on. I kept my eyes shut. My lip trembled. ‘Ameera, look at Shaukat.’ There was singing, but I didn’t open my eyes. I felt the veil pulling on my hair as it came away. Then I was lifted to stand and my own dupatta was raised. I opened my eyes, the table was gone and Shaukat was in front of me. He took my hand and put a ring on my finger. His hands were warm and he had a faint smile on his face as though he was amused by the whole show.
The people in the room practically cheered, excited to be present when the bride and groom saw each other for the first time. My breath was coming too fast; I thought I’d faint. His skin was almost as fair as mine, no buck teeth, trimmed moustache, grey eyes, almost the same height as Tariq. His Pushtun nose wasn’t as hooked as Papa’s and gave strength to his features. In that maroon turban adorned with pearls he looked so refined. Mum would say he was handsome, and that was the problem: he was closer to her age than to mine. He even had flecks of grey at his temples. What was Papa thinking? I’d thought Tariq was old, but Shaukat looked twenty-five years older than me. He could have fathered both of us.
A plate of sweets on a silver tray was held out to Shaukat. Our first act as a married couple was to eat from the same sweet. Shaukat chose a piece, took a bite and held it for me to bite as well. I didn’t refuse; I was too stunned. We chewed together and a camera flashed. My glance flickered to him once or twice; he was watching me. Had he been told I’d be a difficult bride? It didn’t look like it. He seemed pleased with what he saw, almost as if I was familiar to him. Maybe age gave him that poise, that ability to make others feel more at ease. Strangely, that made me more nervous than ever.
PART 3
A Lake of Tears
29
Aunt Bibi and Uncle Iqbal led Shaukat outside. Meena took my arm and guided me to the shamiana, the tent where Shaukat and I would sit on display. There were hundreds of guests, but fortunately I didn’t have to greet anyone. I glanced up once when we reached the tent. Shaukat was seated on the couch, watching me approach. It could have been the heaviness of the bridal dress but I felt as though I was fighting a high tide to walk towards him.
‘Are you okay?’ Meena asked.
I nodded but I knew what it was: I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to sit on that couch by Shaukat to show all those guests I was now his wife. If only it were Tariq.
Meena helped me up the step to the stage, and Shaukat practically lifted me the rest of the way. Relatives swarmed around us congratulating us. None of the men spoke to me directly but I heard the comments: perfect match, Allah ka shukr hai, thanks be to God, may you be happy. Everyone was happy for Shaukat. He still hadn’t spoken directly to me and to my untrained ear his Urdu sounded like everyone else’s. Then he answered one of his friends in English, which made me forget to keep my face lowered. Shaukat had a cultured English accent; he must have studied at an English university. He caught me staring and I looked away, my face burning.
The guests were still eating. We’d misse
d the first rush on the tables that typically occurs at weddings. Now many were sitting and talking; some young girls were dancing to the band that had accompanied Shaukat. Food was set on a low table in front of us: Kashmiri pilau with saffron, sultanas and peas, tandoori chicken, rice, naan and other curry dishes but I couldn’t bring myself to taste anything. The babble in the tent was incessant and the tightness in my head wouldn’t clear. Different groups of relatives stood behind us for group photos and a man with a video camera roamed around. No one asked me to look up and smile. I probably looked as sad as any true bride.
Meena and Jamila managed to steal Shaukat’s shoe and made him offer money to get it back; a custom I’d heard of but never seen. He gave three thousand rupees, handed over in crisp new notes. ‘I’ve never known a groom to be so generous,’ Meena whispered, happy for me.
We must have sat there for hours while guests gave us their best wishes. I gleaned some new information: the death of Shaukat’s first wife was a tragedy, she had a brain tumour, they had no children. My headache persisted.
Finally it was time for the ruksati, the leaving. Meena helped me down from the stage. Uncle Rasheed held a Koran over my head while Papa recited some verses. Then he said the words that gave me to Shaukat. The band sang sad songs of separation. Papa hugged me and I saw the tears in his eyes. That started me off too.
Aunt Bibi had hired a doli to carry me to the car. Male cousins lifted it while Shaukat walked alongside. I felt myself floating above it all, watching it happen to the girl in the mirror. Shaukat lifted her out of the doli and put her in the back seat of the car. Uncle Rasheed, Papa, Aunty Khushida, Meena, even Asher and Zeba were there, waving and wiping their eyes. Shaukat sat in the back beside the girl in the mirror; he took her hand to hold it between both of his and she let him.
Marrying Ameera Page 15